


Emissary

by Janekfan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Bathing/Washing, Because it's The Witcher, Because of Reasons, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Exhaustion, Feral Ciri, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fights, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oblivious, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Reckless Behavior, Self-Indulgent, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion, Suicidal Thoughts, Travel, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), he can be both
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: The way north is being cleared for Geralt and Ciri.Geralt has to reconcile with some new truths about Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 256
Kudos: 1323
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Geralt is Sorry





	1. Chapter 1

“I heard it with me own ears next town over on delivery!” Geralt tugged Ciri’s hood over over her face as he leaned closer to listen to the man at the next table. He was gesticulating wildly, emboldened by drink if he was speaking so freely of Nilfgaard. “A whole battalion!” Dropping his voice low, he glanced around suspiciously, and Geralt dropped back to sip on his ale after retrieving it from the Princess’ sticky fingers. “Slaughtered.” 

“No.” All leaned into the center, voices hushed with astonishment. “How?” He gestured for another round, beaming like a cat who’d got the cream. 

“Bad intelligence.” 

“No!” 

“This is just what I’ve heard, mind. Don’t go spreadin’ it around, aye boys?” They most certainly would; of that Geralt had no doubt. The witcher slid his portion of coarse dark bread over to the girl. 

“What was it, then? Mages?” Though everybody knew what happened to the mages at Sodden. 

“ _Monsters_.” 

“No!”

“Aye!” Like cackling hens. “Used the wrong path through the forest, if you catch my meaning.” 

“No!”

“Wiped out the whole lot!” It couldn’t be, though Geralt thought he could guess which wood they went walking through. It wouldn’t have been pretty.

“No!” The men dissolved into howling fits of laughter and mimicry of the dying cries of the Nilfgaardian soldiers. Geralt didn’t care for it, placing a heavy hand on Ciri’s shoulder, and casting his strange eyes towards the stairs. 

“We’ll leave at first light.” The witcher set the small chair provided in front of the door, steel sword on his lap and ready. “Go to sleep, Ciri.” 

“He was handsome. Charming, too.” The young woman, long hair braided into an intricate style, a flower seller, was speaking with her friend, blushing, grinning, giggling, while Ciri picked out some fresh fruit across the market. “Do you know what he told me?” 

“If he told you he’d return--” She was interrupted by a laugh. 

“Oh, don’t be foolish, I’m under no illusions.” She laid down her basket so she could whisper into the other woman’s ear, cupping her hand around her mouth to stifle the sound and if Geralt’s ears weren’t as good as they were, he’d have been out of luck. “He sent the Nilfgaardian army in the wrong direction!” 

“Surely you jest!” 

“A real spy!” Casting the back of her hand against her forehead, she fell back against the stone wall behind her. “Ah, but he was handsome. Those fingers!” 

“Shut it.” The exchange of coin with a buyer, thanks and a seller’s smile. “I’m not going to be jealous.” 

“Such skill. He plaited my hair.” Geralt turned away, focusing his attention elsewhere, like returning the trinket Ciri was attempting to slip into her pocket. Of course, this would be his Child of Surprise. Already feral after so little time abroad. Gently, he guided her away, face sticky with juice, past the flower seller and her friend. 

“Come, Fiona.” When she stopped to touch the colorful petals. Blue bachelor’s buttons. Not much more than a weed, no matter their vibrancy. As they were turning a corner, she spoke again but Geralt couldn’t be certain he’d heard correctly. 

“But my darling, his _voice_.” A swooning sigh. “ _How he sang_.” 

“I wouldn’t take that road, Master Witcher.” Geralt narrowed sharp yellow eyes but it seemed a genuine warning. 

“Why not?” 

“Nilfgaardian company just passed through and I don’t think even a man such as yourself wants to tangle with them.” The farmer chuckled, leaning on the fence he was repairing. “Or the beasts that live up that way.” 

“Beasts?” 

“Beasts?” 

“Hush, Fiona.” 

“Aye.” It was no secret that the common folk had nothing kind to say about invading armies and scouting parties. They were still close enough to Upper Sodden that it was wise to avoid danger. But something seemed to be avoiding it for them. Their way suspiciously clear. “Now, a furlong or so west you’ll come across safer roads. Even a supply camp if you follow far enough.” Geralt paid the man for his unsolicited intelligence and didn’t snap his arm when he reached for the young princess to pat her head. “Listen to your father here, young pup.” 

“I will!” 

True to the old man’s word a bustling camp full of fresh horses, crates of goods and materials, swords, food stores, everything an army marching on its stomach would need to keep going strong. Stopping for a quick meal and some more information proved useful. Even, or perhaps especially, guards had loose tongues after a drink or two.

“Fool told them, ha!” Doubled over in laughter, the shorter of the pair used his companion’s shoulder to right himself. “Goddess, if he isn’t a foppish popinjay even dressed drab. He told them one of his best men was taken out right here!” He wiped his eyes of tears, the grin both relieved and overjoyed and when Geralt glanced around he could see why. There weren’t enough bodies here to stop a squad without heavy fatalities. “Best wait for snow!”

“Do you know who they keep talking about?” Muffled around a too-large bite of soft bread and jam. 

“Don’t speak with your mouth full.” 

“He might not look like much, but he spins falsehoods better than a spider spins her web.” 

A spy’s purpose was walking a fine line between life and death. How much longer would one this bold and brash keep Nilfgaard’s favor if he kept leading them astray?

“Dead?” Geralt’s sharp hearing picked up the hushed buzz of gossip. The spy was popular and always one step ahead of them. No matter how the witcher asked he was brushed aside, asked to move along, he’d find no answers here or the next village so stop asking. But now. Were they talking of their beloved informer? 

“Wasn’t he a general of some import?”

“Aye.” 

“But how?” 

“Poison.” 

“Poison!” The sound of someone’s hand colliding with the back of someone else’s head. Geralt was intimate with that muted thwap. He’d done it often enough to Jaskier when the idiot put himself in harm’s way. 

“Shut it!” 

“Was it--”

“How?” 

“You know--” 

“He was ten leagues away!” Even Geralt didn’t know enough about poisons to accurately cause the demise of a man at a certain time, days later; he didn’t use them hardly at all, preferring instead the certainty of good steel or silver wielded by one's own hands. From what he gathered, his attendant was already executed for the crime as he’d been the last to see him. 

Credit where credit was due, this stranger knew exactly what he was doing. 

A fortnight passed with no more stories of their intrepid operative and Geralt was certain he’d met his end either by Nilfgaard’s hand or another’s. He was disappointed. Part of him wished to meet this human instigator and see for himself what measure of man he was. But regular human men were fragile and easily dispatched. 

“Where do you think he’s gone?” Wrapped in a warm fur and huddled close to the fire, Ciri gripped a hot cup of tea sweetened with honey. Jaskier would bemoan the injustice and maltreatment he was sure. 

“You never shared with me!” Affronted and dramatic. All flapping hands and varying pitches. Ciri would no doubt have loved him. 

“Hard to be sure.” He tugged her cloak higher to keep out the chill at her back. “Certainly deft at avoiding us, isn’t he?” No use worrying the girl with more death and loss. They didn’t know him, but he’d been something of a constant. 

“Yes, he is.” She sipped dutifully. “Almost like it’s on purpose.” Her big blue eyes peered up at him. “Do you think he’s avoiding us on purpose?” 

“We are but mice compared to the prey he’s after.” Tapping the bottom of the cup to urge her to finish, he then took it and tucked her in. 

“May I have a story?” She yawned. Geralt stroked her hair, remembering the fingers that once stroked his. 

“Have I told you about the first time I met Jaskier?” 

“Unbelievable.” He’d had to see it for himself. Nilfgaard’s progress was considerably slowed, only sending out small scouting parties to make sure the way was clear. He could see how this spectacle would trick a pair of tired men. It almost fooled him when they topped the ridge and they’d gone looking for it. 

Rows upon rows of tents emblazoned with the Redanian sigil. Cold fire pits and torches. The sound of canvas hitting the wind like sails. 

And no evidence an army had stayed there at all. 

Was this why they didn’t hear of the spy for so long? One huge trick to send Nilfgaard retreating back to reroute, regroup, resupply after all the time and men he’d wasted for them? They were going in circles, hounded at every turn by monsters and fake armies. 

But were they closing in on him in all his recklessness? 

“A large group passed through here.” Geralt figured there were enough sets of tracks to make a platoon or two. 

“What else can you tell?” Ciri crouched next to him, brows drawn and mimicking the witcher’s stern expression. 

“They were moving fast.” And he pointed out the depth of the prints at the toe. “Deeper in the front.” 

“Doesn’t look much like a foot.” When she looked up at him expectantly, he sighed. 

“The ground is soft and swampy in this area. But they’re humanoid in shape. Probably fairly recent though the mud makes it harder to tell.” Silently, he went through his knowledge of the area. No one frequented here because it was dangerous. Especially not in _that_ direction because of the large numbers of archespore and as far as he knew, Nilfgaard did not have proficiency in the signs. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“There’s no good reason to go that way.” He let his lips curl up into a smile, raising an eyebrow and glancing sidelong at Ciri. “Monsters.” 

“The spy?” He didn’t miss the way her eyes sparkled. It was easy to love a mysterious hero. 

“I believe he may be guilty of leading them astray.” 

They traveled farther north to be sure no stray survivors came across their camp and set up for a few days. They were pushing hard; Geralt wanted to meet with Yennefer before heading to Kaer Morhen but Roach and Ciri needed a rest from constant travel if they were going to make it through the pass. The princess tore into her rabbit with vigor, not even complaining about the lack of seasoning, just grateful for warm food and safety. 

Unlike someone his thoughts kept circling back to. 

To quell his overactive mind, Geralt scouted in a wide spiral, hearing, smell, vision, all attuned to anything out of the ordinary and set up a perimeter. It happened when he began to make his way back, something man sized was crashing through the underbrush, clumsy and ungainly, and the air reeked of copper, sounded of heavy, panting breaths loud enough for Geralt to pinpoint and intercept the being to knock them to the ground. They bounced, once, twice, skidding in the dirt to a painful stop. 

They’d, no, he’d, been run through by a Nilfgaardian spear. With an animal-like cry and one crimson hand, the stranger snapped the wood where it punctured his lightweight armor. 

“Wait!” The figure, laid out on his side, reached behind him with a choked off cry, fingers slipping along the shaft of the spear in his own fluids until he gained a firm grip and _pulled_. It came free with an awful squelch, a liquid gush, and he sat up with it, only to fall backwards still shrouded in shadow. 

The trembling creature was sprawled before him, propped up against the rough trunk of a tree, the hand pressed to his side doing nothing by the look of it. Blood poured over his lips when he smiled, teeth black in the dark. Eyes darker from where they stared at him through thick lashes, the signs of toxicity unfamiliar on a familiar face. 

“You must have some review of me.” Cracked and weak. They both knew the identity of the spy now. “Three words or less.”


	2. Chapter 2

" _Fuck_." Low and with feeling. 

“Ah well.” Another cascade slicked his lips. “Been worse reviews.” He hacked up a mouthful of gore. "M'pack." Trembling fingers gestured weakly towards the half rotted stump a handful of yards away, blood dripped heavy to the ground. “Please.” Whatever else was happening, he didn’t have much time, and Geralt took a few steps backwards before darting to the hiding place and retrieving a very familiar satchel. He couldn’t help but notice there was no lute. 

The man, he couldn’t parse his identity right now, or admit to it, or accept that this was truly happening right now, had tipped onto his side by his return.

"Give us a Kiss." He laughed, coughed, retched, groaned. Geralt wished there were more light, he couldn’t see the color of the potions he’d dug for, settling for kneeling beside him and uncorking them to test for smell. 

“Stay still.” Lifting his head with one hand, he tipped the potion against his lips with the other, immediately clotting the blood he was hemorrhaging but drawing a shaky whimper out of him from the pain of rising toxicity. He was playing with a delicate balance and losing. 

“As l’lovely as it is to see you--” 

"Where'd you get this?" Geralt held out a medallion of silver elegantly twisted into a loose knot in the shape of a snake and laying on the bit of leather the man had been storing it in. “ _Viper_?” Spit like a curse, harsh enough to make those black eyes dart to the side in shame.

"Would you believe m’holding it for a friend?" So quietly as he was racked intermittently with fits of muscle spasms. Geralt knew from experience they more than stung and they coaxed pitiful sounds involuntarily from the _other_ witcher’s throat. 

"All Vipers are dead." Why he was speaking with such anger he didn’t want to examine and the flicker of pain, dulled by time but sharp enough over his drawn, pale face mapped with black veins wasn’t enough to make him. 

"Not all." With great effort he levered himself upright, swiping the back of a gloved wrist over his forehead and only succeeding in smearing the blood around. “Geralt--”

“No.” 

“Please. Just.” His stained teeth clicked together with a particularly hard spasm. “Talk to me?” Perhaps he was being cruel, carrying on the vitriol from the mountain. Their parting had been under less than kind circumstances and Geralt had been able to convince himself that it was for the bard’s own safety that he wasn’t trailing after him like a lost pup. 

_Now_.

“You were the one clearing the way north.” He carefully left out any clues that he was traveling with another, still deciding if he should take him along or gut him and finish the job Nilfgaard started. 

“Heh.” Lashes fluttering, he swallowed hard, head lolling on a flimsy neck. “Coincidence, m’sure.” When his chin collided with his chest he couldn’t lift it again and when he looked at Geralt it was to look through him. “Ha..hm.” His breath came short, gasping and painful. “Will you.” 

“Will I _what_?” 

“L’leave?”

 _Me_. Anger and confusion and turmoil. The path was never meant to be easy but he can’t ever remember it ever being this hard. He’d lied to him. Two decades and he’d never known who he traveled with. How many men he had been before they met.

“I don’t know who you even are.” Was that the same expression he’d put on his face on the mountain? Just as it was on the mountain he regretted his callousness immediately. 

And just like the mountain, he wasn’t there to see it. 

Geralt nudged one outstretched leg with the toe of his boot. He could hear his heartbeat, far too fast without enough blood to move around. Their mutations were different in ways Geralt couldn’t know, each school guarded their individual secrets well, and Viper had been sacked long ago; its attendants scattered like insects to be hunted down and crushed. With his dagger he lifted his chin, let the sharp point skim over one of the big arteries in his throat, sickly dark and easy to see. This wasn’t meditation, it was unconsciousness and there was only a small chance he’d walk away from this under his own power. 

He could leave him here. Go back to Ciri. Pretend it never happened. 

Let him succumb. 

Gently, Geralt replaced the blade with his palm, thumbed over a cheek feverishly hot from the poison preventing him from bleeding out completely. 

“Fuck.” 

“Who is that?” Ciri’s eyes went wide and curious, Roach’s nostrils flared when she turned her chestnut head and she nickered in recognition. 

“Jaskier.”

“But.” The princess’ nose twisted up in confusion, not fear of the ebony breaking through porcelain skin nor the blood soaking him head to toe. “Jaskier is a bard.” 

“We need to move while the potion is holding.” She nodded with all the seriousness of a noble child and began to break camp with efficiency.

When Geralt lifted Jaskier onto Roach he couldn’t help but notice how rangy and lean he’d become after close to a year on the road acting as a spy loyal to Nilfgaard. Jaskier had never been a small man, but he’d been soft in all the places that this man was hard angles and sharp lines. 

A stranger. 

It wasn’t safe to bring him to a healer or a mage, not now. Not as he was. Their survival relied on them laying low and hiding their true selves and that was hard enough when traveling with one witcher, let alone two. 

The inn was discrete, desperate for business; and covered in muck and dust from travel, Ciri looked like any other undersized urchin you could find scavenging in these wartorn places. Jaskier, he carried on his back, face covered completely as he was suffering from a bad case of consumption and his twitching and wheezing sold the story as though the bard was spinning it himself. Nobody with an ounce of self preservation would come near him now. 

Depositing Jaskier on the floor none too gently, Geralt stood back, pinching the bridge of his nose through a long suffering sigh. Ciri was unpacking supplies and laying out the ones she thought Geralt might need and counting out the coins needed to buy a meal before spiriting away down the stairs still smudged and dirty. Geralt was grateful for the space. 

“Jaskier.” No response. The jerking limbs didn’t say anything good, only spoke of his condition tipping in the potion’s ill favor and while the White Honey Geralt found in his bag next to that hideous snake medallion would nullify the toxin, it would also restart the bleeding. “Fuck.” He was still so angry, tearing off Jaskier’s leathers and throwing them in the corner without care; let the buckles rust, let the surface crack. He never wanted to see him wearing it again. 

Stripped to his waist, wound exposed, Geralt scrubbed at his skin roughly to remove enough blood to see what he was doing, pointedly ignoring his gaunt frame and retrieved the thin instruments Ciri left out for him. Bless the girl, she was more capable than he ever had hoped. The margins of the injury were relatively clean considering the force the spear must have traveled with but the real danger was inside, where he couldn’t see. He flushed it with water, removing debris that didn’t belong from his fall in the forest, turned him over and repeated the tedious process. While he worked he couldn’t help but notice he had no serious scars. 

No. 

He wouldn’t would he. 

Because he was trained in espionage. Deception. Lies. _Hiding_.

Geralt found himself jealous of smooth skin and scars gained by normal things. Bar brawls, and scrapes gifted to him by jilted lovers. But he’d have a real one now. Ugly and twisted and matching, front to back. And Jaskier, if that was even his real name, was as vain as they came. 

“Jaskier.” He needed his hands to hold the packing, lest he just bleed out and undo all his hard work. Geralt slapped him, harder than he might a human. One cheek, the other, again, until heavy lashes barely parted, revealing a thin line of black. “Hold this.” Though his grip was weak, he pressed down as instructed, keening at the hurt when Geralt reached beneath him to do the same. “Drink it.” Instantly, the gauze soaked in hot crimson and the toxicity faded.

“Geralt?” 

“Hush.” He added another pad for each of them. “Hold.” Strawflower blue threatened to roll back and Geralt gripped his chin and locked eyes. “ _Hold._ ” The hemorrhage slowed, only dotting the bandages he wrapped him with, knotting it tightly. Ciri returned with a plate just as he was tucking Jaskier into the bed. 

“Is he okay now?” Geralt shoveled down his pottage and ale, sopping up the remains with the heel of bread while he considered. 

“We’ll know more tomorrow.” 

Jaskier hurt.

Black lightning ran through his veins, thunder cracked his bones, a corrupt miasma choked any sweet air from his body. Everything was darkness and agony; he could feel the tremors, each one an earthquake threatening to tear him apart. He was trapped in molasses, done up in bits of twine and unable to move. It was his voice that clawed its way down to him, low and rough like stone tumbling down a mountain and Jaskier was caught up in the landslide. If he called for him, it was compulsory, drawn from him like water from a well because he could deny this man nothing. 

Even now. 

Molten silver flooded his throat followed by a breath that didn’t reach his strangling lungs. 

Too tight. Too much. Freedom from one abuse just to be captured by another.

A firm grip on his jaw, that voice again. An order. He knew how to obey those. 

Then.

Nothing.

He woke to Geralt’s voice patiently explaining something he couldn’t decipher. It was somewhere far away and quiet. But not to him. The wolf was angry with him. Moreso, probably, than when they last saw each other. The effort to turn his head on the pillow was all he had to give but it caught Geralt’s attention anyway. When suddenly he was there, beside the bed, Jaskier startled, unable to stop the pathetic noise forced out of him when it drove a hot poker through his stomach. A heavy palm, cool and comforting, came to rest over his eyes.

Hurting and disoriented, he drifted, consciousness slipping in and out through his fingers like the surf, breath like fire in his lungs and heat licked over his skin like a lash. Jaskier felt awful. Heavy and wrong and his body wasn’t cooperating as it should. Time seemed to skip from one scene to the next between bouts of nothing. 

Water offered by two pairs of hands.

Someone wiping down his over sensitive skin with a damp cloth to quell the coals for a handful of moments. 

A girl telling him stories and sleeping curled up at his side when he was struck with chills.

Flecks of amber focused on him with a glowing intensity. 

Between the loss of blood, the long days distracting an army, the nights worrying, unable to sleep for fear of what might happen if they met again but wishing for it so _badly_ , Jaskier was wrung out and weary and it was easier to drift. 

“Hello!” Jaskier blinked, heavy and slow, as he stared up into a pair of unfamiliar eyes. Truthfully, he didn’t expect to wake at all, figuring he’d finally found absolution at the end of a spear. 

“‘Lo.” His throat was dry, sore. All of him was sore. More than sore and he was absolutely knackered. 

“Geralt said you might want a drink.” That sounded divine but when he attempted to sit up his vision went starkly white. “Jaskier?” There was worry in her far-away voice, genuine fear, and he clawed his way back out of the void to reassure her. 

“M’okay.” Oh goddess, everything _hurt_. This time, she held the cup to his lips, carefully allowing him small sips until he’d finished it.

“Attend to your studies.” The resentment was there in the low growl, but not directed at the child and Jaskier wished briefly that she would stay, because he was nothing more than a coward. Always had been. 

"How long?" 

"Two days." The cat was out of the bag anyway. It would do him no good to pretend Geralt didn’t know exactly what he was. "You have a fever."

"Don' get those." That must be the heavy, unfamiliar ache in his muscles, the strange way heat and cold seemed to hit him from all sides.

“Seems _we_ weren’t all created equal.” Derision laid thick over each word, old prejudices made worse by Jaskier’s deception only verifying what Geralt already knew to be true. He shouldn’t have begged him to live but he was too spineless to do as he’d wished and take himself off his hands. 

“Different majors.” Geralt wasn’t forthcoming. They might as well have been strangers for all he spoke to him. He checked the hole in his side and while he didn’t make an effort to be careful, he also didn’t treat him roughly on purpose. Jaskier was healing slow, likely from the stress, but he was _healing_ , and would be out of the way soon as possible. It was disconcerting, the way Geralt looked down at him with disgust. Their friendship was as real to Jaskier as anything else was in his life. He’d meant it when he introduced himself as a bard. A wanderer. Looking for a muse to inspire. 

It was as close to who he thought he’d been before the trials. 

He thought it was enough. 

Tearing into the food, gulping down bread and ale and great mouthfuls of the simple stew, Jaskier looked feral in a way that made Geralt wonder when he’d last eaten. Wolves could go a long time without food and sleep but the energy it took to fight, to heal, to _run_ with your tail between your legs, would sap you to the marrow. Jaskier looked sheepish, pushed away the empty bowl and finished the mug. 

By the look of him, he could probably scoff another helping.

“Thank you.” Quietly. Hands folded and still. Had that restless energy he always seemed to have been false as well? Did this stranger before him murder the true namesake and owner of the lute he played so well? He could tell the moment his mask slid into place, when his eyes emptied like a spilled cup. He was awaiting an interrogation.

“Was it all a lie?” He’d known he was a performer but clearly not the depth of it. _Viper_. Old, deep seated enmity made Geralt’s lip turn up in a snarl. He was right to be wary all this time, to keep him at arm’s length. This is why he’d never let this bard--this liar close. He probably changed identities as easily, as often, as a snake shed its skin. 

“What do you care?” Tempered and even. There was hurt there, simmering beneath blue depths. “You made your feelings quite clear.” What right had _he_ to be angry with _him_? When all this time it had been falsehood upon falsehood! Geralt had never lied to this man.

“I was right about you.” Quiet thunder. His knuckles went white. “I knew.” And now instead, there was real fear in his eyes. Good. Let the charlatan be afraid. 

“What do you know?” Was the tremor real or counterfeit? 

“I was right about you on the mountain.” That day Geralt was a pillar of righteous rage and fury with flames fanned by the departing scent of lilacs, gooseberries and a convenient target for his heartbreak. It was a savage blow, calculated and cruel, worse perhaps than the hit Nilfgaard had landed, and he could see right where it struck. If Jaskier had been holding out for any forgiveness he wouldn’t find it here. 

“I see.” A whisper. Hoarse and followed by an audible swallow. The trembling line of his lips pressed tight and twisted when all at once a calm befell him. “Thank you.”

He rose slowly, the hole through him wasn’t yet done repairing itself. Knelt to embrace Ciri when she ran toward him. 

“Dear girl.” Immeasurably sad, full of sorrow. Was this a game? Geralt watched warily as Jaskier pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Watch out for him.” 

He retrieved the familiar, travel worn satchel. His shredded armor with its vile snakeskin pattern.

And just as happened on the mountain, he left.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the characters are hijacking this thing D:

For a time, there was no word of him. He’d vanished into the wind as easily as Yen stepped through portals and Geralt was grateful for it. Jaskier’s presence brought with it too many conflicting feelings that he didn’t have time to think about. 

Keep Ciri safe. 

Connect with Yennefer.

Get to Kaer Morhen.

Those were the only goals he needed to focus his attention on and Jaskier, as always, found a way to be irritating even from a distance. 

“Why did Jaskier leave?” Supremely irritating. 

“Hm.” She’d been walking behind him for a little while, and now she ran up and gave his sleeve a strong tug, effectively stopping him. 

“Geralt!” The tone reminded him of blue eyes and flashing teeth. “Why did you fight?” 

“We didn’t.” She frowned, brow raised to remind him that she was no fool. 

“Looked like a fight.” 

“It wasn’t.” Thank the goddess she stopped speaking and fell behind him and even though he could feel her fierce eyes boring holes in back, he didn’t turn around. Blissful silence fell between them and lifted far too soon. 

“Jaskier looked sad.” 

“Good.” Gravely and dark, all the hurt in him laid thick over the word as he forced it between clenched teeth. “He lied to me.” And he surprised himself in sharing it with the girl.

“Why?” 

“Why?” Roaring, he whirled on her and she stood her ground having seen much worse than him. “He _lied_ about being a witcher, and not only that. A Viper.” Spit like a curse, Geralt was panting, trying to control his anger and frustration and his confusion about everything that had happened in the last two decades, forced now to question Jaskier’s motives. “He _used_ me for his own gain. And I’m not surprised considering where he was schooled. Lying, cheating, conniving cowards. It’s no wonder the bastards were wiped out.” 

“Gera--”

“He _should_ run. And far. Before someone finishes the job.” Ciri looked hurt, lips pursed and body thrumming with all the fury the Lion Cub of Cintra could muster. 

“You don’t mean that.” Roach nipped his shoulder in warning when he pulled too sharply on her reins turning back to the path. His legs felt stiff as he stalked forward, the measly grip left on his stunted emotions the only thing keeping him from leaving the brat behind. 

“I do.” 

“He’s helping us!” Shrill and pointed, Ciri all but screamed at his back. 

“He’s helping himself.” 

“You need to apologize.” Night whispered around them beyond the crackling of the fire and the sound of Ciri feeding it small bits of pine twigs to make it pop and sizzle. She didn’t look at him over the flames and having already eaten, there was nothing Geralt could distract her with. He didn’t want to talk about this. He wanted to go home and get Destiny’s plan over with. Do mindless, meaningless chores. Beat the tar out of his brothers. Enjoy a well deserved rest and let Vesemir and Yennefer bear the brunt of entertaining a child for a small while. 

“No.” He didn’t look at her either. “I don’t.” 

“I’m not stupid.” 

“Never said you were.” 

“Just think about it? Please?” She finally curled up in her bedroll, drawing everything as close as she could get it. “You were friends once. I’m sure he had a reason.”

“To lie?” 

“To be _scared_.” When she rolled over to face the forest instead of him, Geralt felt a sharp pang in his gut. Even before the mountain, he’d treated the man roughly and without regard for his innumerable feelings. And then, blamed him for all his life’s many ills. Begrudgingly, he could admit that Jaskier refrained from telling him because he probably guessed what the reaction would be. 

What had Geralt done but prove him right?

Jaskier claimed to be a bard. Studied and worked at University. It was the information withheld that made the ire rise. Had he truly been frightened of what Geralt might do to him? Of what others might do to him if they knew he was the last of an extinct breed? Was it that he seemed to have a choice? That his tether to the path he was supposed to be walking was so easily snapped by Jaskier while it chained Geralt to it with relentless fervor? Was it because only Geralt was allowed to have secrets? That he’d assumed Jaskier to be a witless musician with a taste for danger and perilous love and could be nothing more? And he was wrong?

The answers were no clearer at dawn when Ciri rose yawning, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with the heel of her hand to look at him with a question in her open face. 

“We seem to be headed in the same direction anyway.” He found himself with the princess’ arms wrapped tightly around his neck in a warm embrace. 

He allowed himself to tentatively return it. 

He was tracking Jaskier now, north, as the snake continued in spite of it all to clear the way, more and more reckless, his attacks on Nilfgaardian scouting parties closer and closer together with little to no time in between them if the descriptions he got from townsfolk were accurate. 

With him running before them, taking little rest and at a pace a child could not go, Geralt was frustrated that Jaskier never set up camp, never stayed in any one place longer than he absolutely had to. To do the job and nothing else. 

It was reckless. Dangerous. Jaskier was throwing himself at one dangerous obstacle after another. Trying to throw _himself_ away.

Assassinations, brutal and swift. Contracts handled on the way when he needed a meal. Pockets of Nilfgaardian soldiers scattered across the countryside in such disarray that Geralt couldn’t help but wonder if there were a few more out there with this set of skills, would Nilfgaard have reached Cintra at all?

A brothel. 

Of course. Why did he expect anything else?

Just when Geralt was beginning to tentatively understand. 

The madam met him at the door to her room, blocking entry with an elegantly placed arm, and if the concentration of Jaskier’s scent was any higher he would have moved her bodily out of his way.

“You know the bard.” 

“Rude.” 

“Tell me where he’s hiding.” She deigned not to shift more than folding her arms to stand in the center of the frame. 

“Our darling Jaskier has told us stories of you.” Her lip curled in a sneer as her sharp brown eyes raked him up and down like claws and Geralt’s narrowed in turn. “Color me less than impressed. Witcher.” Her tone resembled a reminder more than scorn at his title. 

“You _will_ tell me.” Low and dangerous and filled with idle threat, suddenly glad that he’d left Ciri behind with Roach so she wouldn’t witness this of him. 

“ _You_ don’t frighten me.” Indeed, she smelt of anger, was practically vibrating with it, but there was no trace of fear and it took the posturing out of him. “That’s better.” She led him by the hand to the settee. “Jaskier stumbled, and I do mean stumbled, in here at the dead of night. He stayed just until dawn.” 

“Why?”

“‘Somewhere safe for a little while’ is all he said.” As she wrung her hands together Geralt pondered their history. He had connections, clearly, he had to in order to be so effective. “He slept like the dead and trusted I would keep him. Though I’m not sure he had much choice in that. Our poor songbird is running himself ragged.” That wouldn’t explain the familiar scent still stuck as strongly about the room.

“Are you hurt?” And she had the bravery to slap him.

“He would never!” 

“No, I. The smell of blood.” 

“Oh, no. It belongs to Jaskier and I haven’t yet had the time to change the sheets.” While she explained, Geralt stood and pulled away the heavy quilts to reveal the bedclothes speckled generously with rust. 

Clove and rosemary. 

“He wouldn’t hear of me dressing it.” At this she looked down and away. “Little lark doesn’t know how to let others care for him as he should.” 

“Hm.” How many left on the continent even chose to?

“Are you going to find him?” 

“I am.” Her expression hardened despite there being nothing she was strong enough to do about it. 

“Are you going to hurt him?” 

_More_?

“I wish to help him.” The revelation was new to even him and Geralt replaced the blankets, musing. “If he’ll let me.” 

Stupid Geralt. 

Stupid Geralt manhandling his effects. 

Jaskier tossed his armor soon after he realized most of it was too far beyond repair to deal with, leaving him only with his gambeson, and that with a matching pair of holes he didn’t have time to do anything about. 

The blood was so embedded in the skin of his hands he feared they would never be clean again and he let himself fade out just a little, just for a moment to escape. Jaskier had never taken to killing, to assassinations; they were far too messy and watching the light die in a man’s eyes never became easier no matter where they came from. There were so many marks still remaining on his list of assignments but he was so tired, so sore. Had to keep on the move lest their paths cross. When his vision came back into focus Jaskier realized his fingers were trembling hard and he crammed them under his arms and shrank himself small. 

Stood on shaking legs and kept pushing forward. 

He would continue forward until he couldn’t anymore.

He barely understood where he was, just knew the color of this door was familiar and he shoved hard against it with his rarely used witcher strength, snapping the simple lock on the other side. When he all but fell through into a warm open space, it yanked on the wound in his side and sticky warmth spread down his thigh. Again. He’d lost count. His breeches were stiff with it. 

He should keep moving.

“Jaskier?” Thinking was impossible a task and when he opened his mouth it was to choke out a sob. Firm hands took some of his weight, held his chin steady as he shook. “Look at me, Jaskier.” But he was so _tired_. The palm moved to cup his cheek, cool against the heat and the ache and the loss and the heartbreak. “Been burning the candle at both ends, haven’t you, love?” The words didn’t matter, her voice kept him focused and grounded long enough for her to help him across the room and into her own. He wavered, chest heaving like a bellows, as she peeled him out of quilted, stifling fabric and settled him on something soft. Something like relief.

He should keep moving.

“Jus’ a little while.” He hurt. Hurt even to speak.

He should keep moving.

“Of course, darling.” With a soft touch she moved his hair aside, carded fingers through his bangs and down his face, guiding him down to the sheets, smoothing away the damp that snuck past fluttering lashes and slipped down to his temples.

He should keep moving. 

“Somewhere safe.” His mouth was full of ash, the taste of ruined things. “Jus’...” He sighed, heavy and deep, her gentle movement continued. “Jus’.”

_He should keep moving._

Blinking against the sun lancing across his face, Jaskier sat up gingerly, noting with dismay that he’d bled all over the sheets. 

“I thought you’d be awake.” She offered him food and water and let him tuck in with a sad smile on her face. “At least you look a little better.” She traced the shadows under his eyes with a finger tip. 

“Feel a little better, too.” Managing only a shadow of his usual grin he finished the tray and placed his feet on the ground, catching up her hand. “Thank you, Emma.” 

“I tried to get the blood out, washed what things I could. Packed you some food, you’re too thin.” 

“You didn’t have to do that.” Barely above a whisper, lips pressed thin and gaze downcast. 

“It’s such a small thing, Jaskier.” Framing his face with softness, she pressed a kiss to his forehead and though he was so much older, it made him feel like a child again. He didn’t pretend with her, couldn’t if he tried or wanted to. “I was happy to do it.” Jaskier let himself fall forward, trusting her to catch him up in an embrace.

But stayed silent.

She helped him dress, lingering softly when skin met skin and made him shiver. It had been so long since he’d felt such a friendly touch and her’s was like static. 

“Can’t I change this for you, love?” Fingertips ghosted over the saturated pad of gauze and Jaskier flinched away. 

“I must be going.” He smiled, could feel how hollow it was, and turned away from her before he could succumb to weakness. “I’ll visit, when next I’m close.” 

“Of course, darling.” 

She let him keep his lie.


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier knew he was being stalked and though he could guess what hunted him, he wasn’t able to fathom why other than the finishing of a job begun long ago. 

He used all of his best tricks to shake him, but even so Geralt was always just behind, dogging his steps, and Jaskier was almost at the end of his strength. More than that, he didn’t know what Geralt wanted from him, to do with him. Jaskier wasn’t even sure what he, himself, wanted. After clearing the way quite far north, Jaskier was planning to go to ground. Hide for a few seasons somewhere near the coast until he could remake himself another identity.

Because he was too craven to end it on his own. So empty he wasn’t sure if it was the right answer. Was hoping this whole time something else would take the decision away from him and just make it all _stop_. Just tell him _what to do_.

Jaskier was lying on his stomach, lazily draped over the limb of a tree and watching Geralt prowl underneath. He was up quite high, cheek pillowed on folded arms, breath slow, deep, quiet, eyes tracking the stiff line of his shoulders. The White Wolf didn’t enjoy being outsmarted and Jaskier allowed himself a small smile at the thoughts he imagined going through Geralt’s head. He was probably furious, especially considering his quarry. Exceedingly clever if he said so himself, Jaskier scaled a tree some leagues away before making his way through the branches in a last ditch attempt to disappear and had been taking a well deserved, well overdue nap when soft footfalls below woke him. 

He’d cursed then; fuck Geralt’s persistence, and put a scrap of an old poem to an even older melody in the back of his mind. 

_There’s a haunting horror near us  
that nothing drives away;  
fierce lamping eyes at nightfall,   
a crouching shade by day;   
there’s a whining at the threshold,   
there’s a scratching at the floor.  
“To work! To work! In heaven’s name,   
the wolf is at the door!” _

It was made abundantly clear in this attenuated moment between them that Geralt would never stop. Not until he rid the continent of its very last Viper. They both knew Jaskier was an abomination, worse than any monster his wolf had yet to come across, and Geralt was nothing if not good at his job. He was torn in twain with wanting, heart twisted up in desperate desire to make amends warring with the knowledge that Geralt would never forgive him and wanting only that. And while Jaskier’s training refused to let him give in to his own deep aching, there was another way. One that removed the choice completely. Either he would prove himself and give Geralt the slip again.

Or he wouldn’t.

Jaskier’s eyes flashed in the low light of the undergrowth as he slipped sinuously, silently down the tree, all pain and focus, exhaustion and synchronicity. Longing and hunger. 

He wouldn’t have a chance if he didn’t catch him unawares and subdue him enough to run.

Not a sound passed from lips forming the shape of his conviction. 

“To work, to work.” 

Geralt knew the fool was around here somewhere and cursed the stench of his blood criss-crossing these woods. He was about half a day’s travel from the closest village and on the heels of one annoying bard if the keeper of the inn where he’d stashed Ciri was telling the truth. This was ridiculous. If anyone dared tell him the skills that Jaskier kept hidden behind his feckless expression, Geralt would have laughed and laughed loudly. 

If he’d lost him Geralt knew he’d never find him again and the longer he searched the more desperate he became. The more he thought about it, the more glaring his mistakes were and he had to speak with him. 

Now that he wasn’t blinded by his own shortsightedness and anger. As always, someone else was suffering because of his inability to accept responsibility for the way his decisions and actions impacted the people around him. His _friends._ Even now, in trying to find him, he felt like a wolf running down a wounded deer. 

The air shifted, became heavy, and it was only instinct that saved Geralt from the Viper’s fangs bearing down from behind him. Jaskier’s weight landed square, forcing him to the ground as he whirled to face him and pinned him there with a sharp knee in the center of his chest and the rest of him tightly coiled above. One dagger was planted in the dirt, a hairsbreadth from the delicate shell of Geralt’s ear having been deflected with a wrist, the other poised over his eye, paused, held, by the strength of his grip over Jaskier’s own hand. He followed the bright curve of steel upwards, making just a fragment of eye contact before the snake was fluidly twisting out of his grasp, using his momentum to send him skidding over the leaf litter. Geralt stood, slowly, hands out as if to soothe a frightened animal. 

“Jaskier.” Sat in a low crouch, twin knives at the ready, the look of determination sent a cold thrill up Geralt’s spine. He couldn’t read him. Everything he thought he knew after twenty years disappeared behind the witcher in front of him. Just the barest flare of his nostrils, and Jaskier launched himself in a full frontal attack only to drop his hand to the forest floor at the last second to rotate about the wolf’s legs in a somersault, landing two inhumanly swift slashes into the meat of Geralt’s thighs. “Damnit, Jaskier!” Geralt didn’t have his sword. But Jaskier was wounded. Tired. Panting hard already and this time Geralt landed a blow that sent him rolling. “Stop this!” Lurching to his knees, Jaskier got one foot under him, failing to rise and only succeeding in sprawling in the soil again to earn himself a mouthful of dirt. 

“Why?” He spat, coughed, and Geralt stared at the string of blood oozing from his lips, held out his empty hands again. The scent of iron hung thick in the air, compounded with the sharp tang of fear and despair. Pain, when he did finally make it upright. 

But even severed from the body, a snake’s head could still bite. 

“I just. We need to talk.” The man in front of him scoffed, hacked up gore that painted his jaw bright, scalding red. 

“One, one moment you hate me for what I am, for every version of _me_ I am, and the next, you want to talk?” 

“About what I said on the mountain.” Jaskier laughed, a sound like drowning, and spread his arms wide in disbelief, shaking his head and staring up at the sky as if for answers. 

“I’ve been _trying_ to take myself off your hands. Just let me!” The implications froze Geralt’s heart. 

“Don’t say that, please.” 

“You despise me.”

“I don’t.” 

“You always h’have.” His already cracked voice, hitched on a sob and Geralt looked at him, truly looked at the only Jaskier he had ever known and read the anguish written in every feature. “But you helped me.” Watery, blood-shot blue, the trembling line of his lips. Dirty. Filthy. Streaked with rust and crimson. Chest heaving, stuttering. Tears running thick and fast down his face enough to drip off his jaw. “And then--and now, you’re _here_ and I don’t. I don’t understand.” 

“Jaskier--”

“Are you going to kill me?” Geralt couldn’t decipher if it was hopeful. Was horrified that it might be. 

“No!” 

“Then I don’t know. I don’t know what you _want_ from me.” Plaintive and pleading he staggered forward, back, one step. Two. Color draining from his already pallid skin. His twin knives slipped out of a weakening grip. 

“Jaskier?”

“ _Why?_ ” Throat working, he tried to swallow, dropped his chin.

And fell, unconscious or worse, backwards.

Though not likely, it was a possible ploy, so Geralt slipped the daggers into the belt at his waist before warily approaching, noticing Jaskier’s breathing wasn’t slowing and remained fast and shallow. This was a man dangling from the end of his rope and Geralt didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. 

They were halfway back to the village when the bard draped over his back spoke. He could feel a searing breath against the back of his ear from where Jaskier’s head rested on his shoulder. 

“Why are you doing this?” The heat soaking through even his armor was alarming as were the constant tremors. 

“Hm.” 

“M’tired.” 

“Sleep.” When he hummed in response it was melodic and it made Geralt’s heart hurt in a brand new way. 

This time Geralt laid him on the bed, gentle with him in a way he’d never been before. Ciri flitted around like a butterfly, fetching water and laying out herbs for a decoction while the wolf unbuckled the quilted jacket with care. The chemise wasn’t salvageable, stained dark with blood and sweat and other things and Geralt laid it open like it was a second skin to reveal what he’d already expected. 

“Will he be okay?” The princess kept her voice down, wringing out a flannel and laying it over his forehead. The wound looked no better than when he’d first dressed it, worse even, and hot to the touch. “I thought witchers couldn’t get sick.” 

“Not usually, no.” But Jaskier was exhausted, thin and drawn like cord strained taut and ready to snap. Even witchers needed time and rest to heal. They were far north. It was already colder than when they arrived and the snow would fill the passes soon. They couldn’t stay here and Yen was probably waiting at the last outpost before the path and while she agreed to speak with him, she wasn’t known for her patience. “We have to move as soon as possible.” 

“We can’t leave him!” Ciri was distraught, tears welling up in her clear eyes at even the thought and Geralt was quick to reassure.

“We won’t.” He needed to fashion a way to get him up the mountain. Needed to push aside the thought that Vesemir might take to Jaskier the way Geralt had at first, with prejudice and hate and rage. The elder witcher was far older by centuries without the benefit of two decades of something like friendship. Instead; “Make the tea I showed you, let it cool and drip it slowly onto his tongue. I’ll be back.” The girl nodded seriously as he hefted his steel sword in an iron grip. 

When next he scaled the stairs to their room, he could hear Ciri talking quietly. 

“Geralt doesn’t mean to seem so cross.” The muted sound of cutlery scraping the bottom of a mug slipped under the door. “I think he’s afraid.” There was no response, Geralt wasn’t sure if Jaskier would open his brilliant blue eyes again or not. “Because he _does_ care for you. Even if he has a hard time showing it. I know he does.” He could imagine Jaskier’s comforting smile that wouldn’t reach his eyes because he would want to let her down gently.

“Maybe in some small way.” He would sigh, probably plaiting her hair, combing his dexterous fingers through it to tease out the knots as he’d once done for Geralt forever ago. The words he said to him on the mountain, the accusation he’d coldly reminded him of the last time they met swirled in the air around him. “But here now,” he would distract her, he was good at that, “look at your beautiful hair and praise my talents.” 

Geralt stepped loudly in warning before swinging the door open and striding up to the pair of them. Ciri tipped her cup, half empty, to show him her progress. 

“Good,” he praised, noting that she must have cleaned him up a bit for he was more skin and bruise than blood and dirt. “Pack up.” He gathered up their bedrolls and any spare furs. “I’ll be back for you both.” And he was, just as the last of their supplies and the padded armor were being packed away. A flash of guilt coursed through him remembering the way he’d torn through the leather before, ruined it for wearing and salvaging out of spite.

“Geralt?” Shaking himself out of bad memories, he wrapped Jaskier up tightly in his cloak and picked him up as though he weighed nothing at all, dismayed at how slight he’d become. Roach was waiting patiently, rigged with a hastily crafted but strong travois behind her. They would have to walk but it was the safest and fastest way Geralt could think of to get to where they needed to be. Well padded with the furs, Jaskier sank into the plush cradle and Geralt knew if he ever found out that one could travel like this, he’d never hear the end of it.

Did he expect Jaskier to travel with him again?

He hefted Ciri into the saddle, checked once more to make sure Jaskier was secure and clicked his tongue to be on their way. 

Geralt had to make a choice and he considered it while watching firelight dance and play off the glass in his hand. Ciri was tending to Jaskier, feverish and panting and trembling, unaware of the sweet things she was saying, the lullabies she was humming, as she supplied him small sips of cool water with a spoon. The day’s travel had been hard on him despite Roach’s smooth and gentle gait, the soft, well worn path they traveled. 

Swallow. 

It’s healing properties might bolster him. 

It’s toxicity might kill him in this state. 

The hole through him was a wretched thing, spreading poison in his blood already, and while Geralt flushed it with a cleansing tisane, to which he failed to react, and bound it in layers of bandages to pad it against irritation, it was sapping him of any strength. 

Half? A third? A quarter? How much could he stand? Where was that delicate tipping point? 

A spoonful? He watched the rough hewn utensil rise and fall in Ciri’s pale hand. 

His muscles seized. His teeth clenched and his jaw tightened when the dark filled his veins, breath coming with difficulty as he keened in the back of his throat. 

But he didn’t die. 

“Is he all right?” 

“Hm.” Geralt wasn’t sure. Poured another careful measure before corking the vial. Hesitated. Let it trickle between chapped lips and held him when he spasmed again, stronger this time, enough that a thin line of shiny black was visible between bruised eyelids just briefly. 

“Jaskier?” The girl received no answer but smiled when she swept the backs of her fingers over his cheek. “It helped.” The spidery map was still there, drawn over parchment pale skin with charcoal and it seemed, this time, that the trade had been worth it. 

Pushing hard, damned if they didn’t, damned when they did, Geralt dragged them into town shoving the knowledge that they still had to make it through the pass far, far away. Ciri was already fussing, smoothing back hair matted with sweat, Jaskier’s eyes, clouded with pitch staring through her, toward the sound of her soft voice. She waited for their inevitable slide shut before turning to Geralt.

“Are we stopping for the night?” He considered. It would do them all good to sleep in a real bed before tackling the pass. And he hadn’t seen Yen yet. After stabling Roach and asking the hands to stow their travois, they trudged into the only inn, shivering at the abrupt change in temperature and adjusting to the firelight and lanterns. 

“Why, Geralt.” Slow and bored, her amused drawl both welcome and unwelcome. He turned to watch her approach, tightening his hold on the man in his arms. She was as beautiful as ever and dressed in luxurious furs. 

Wolf. 

Grudge still going strong, then. 

Yennefer’s eyes were chips of amethyst colliding with Geralt’s own amber after quickly taking in Jaskier’s lined and bloodless face where it was pressed close to his chest. 

“What did you _do_?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Bigotry happens so be aware. Vesemir is chilling in his old ways.

“I can’t.” 

“Yen, being angry with me is no excuse--”

“I _can’t_.” Geralt was furious. He knew the sorceress could be cruel but this. “I’m insulted you think my relationship with you would stop me from doing everything in my power for Jaskier.” He watched, feeling protective, as she traced the fading veins with a gentle fingertip almost fondly. 

“You’re not surprised.” 

“Some of us pay more attention than others.” Her eyes flicked to Ciri, curled up at Jaskier’s side, a sentinel asleep, and back again. “He asked me not to tell you.” They narrowed, pinning him like the smallest of insects where he stood. “I understand why. The fear of being different and shunned by the ones who are supposed to love you.” A hot wash of shame ran down his spine to settle in his stomach. “He’s a rare breed. Rarer even than you.” She sighed and it was infinitely tired, the weight of a thousand horrors settled heavy on her shoulders. “Believe me, Geralt. I would, without question, without hesitation, help our dear songbird if I had the strength.” This time, her gaze was soft, her lips turned up in the smallest of painful smiles. “I am unable. Both to. To speak of why and to offer any assistance beyond what I know of potions and tinctures.” 

“I’ve treated him poorly.” 

“You have.” She took a seat in the chair by the bedside and combed her fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “It’s a bad habit I was hoping you’d learn to break, with his help.” 

“Hm.” Yen covered his hand with her own where it rested on Jaskier’s chest, squeezing gently. 

“Tomorrow, we go together. You won’t be alone in this.” Geralt kept his gaze fixed on their intertwining until Yennefer wished him good night, until the door latched behind her. 

“Hm.”

Geralt would never call the way to Kaer Morhen easy, but they were blessed with decent weather and clear skies and the night of decent rest put them all in higher spirits. In the rockiest places Geralt had to lift Jaskier’s litter and carry it between himself and Roach. Ciri traveled with Yen on her gelding, asking endless questions about training and sorcery and this and that and it was almost like having Jaskier back with him again with her curious chattering. As they neared the keep, his apprehension grew. Geralt was well aware the wards would notify Vesemir of his _guests_. 

He hoped he could even bring them through the gates. 

“I’m not letting that witcher into this keep.” The imposing bulk of him barred the way forward, arms crossed and expression stern. He’d accepted the explanation for Ciri and her importance, and accepted that she would need someone with Yennefer’s specific expertise. He would not accept Jaskier and it was like a blow.

“Vesemir, please.” 

“The pup and your _sorceress_ can stay. Not him.” 

“He’s not a threat! I promise, he’s, he’s ill. This is Jaskier, the bard I’ve--”

“You failed to mention he was also a witcher. And unfamiliar. There are so few of us left there isn’t one I don’t know of at least by reputation.” 

“Vesemir--”

“Which leads me to believe you’ve brought an actual _snake_ to our door.” Vesemir’s face softened. “I’m sorry, Geralt. This was before your time. We can’t risk it.”

“What risk is there?” He shouted, roared. “He will die out here.”

“He should have died with the others.” A weak, trembling grip, more like the brush of fingers, on his sleeve was the only thing that stopped him from lunging at the man who’d raised and trained him. 

“S’alright G’ralt.” Ciri was holding him up, the pale and shivering form Jaskier had been reduced to. His dark eyes (and oh how Geralt missed blue sky) were barely open, his neck not strong enough to support his head, but he kept speaking. “Down. I’ll go back down.” Resigned, accepting. Trying to comfort _him._ “S’alright.” Because he was used to it. Rejection and derision was the answer to his unasked question every time. What reason was there now to believe any different? And he was already struggling to his unsteady feet.

“Don’t be foolish!” Shaky, he smiled at something between them, the belief Geralt always held that he was nothing more than an empty-headed nuisance, a burr stuck in Roach’s mane. Like he was a joke. Useless. A burden. 

Still.

“I’ll come with you.” Hurried, rushed, the sudden urge to reassure Jaskier that he was anything but was so strong and even in those black mirrors, Geralt could see the want in him because this was the first time, the only time, he’d ever offered to follow _him_.

“No. Needed ‘ere.” Deeply, preparing himself, he inhaled cold mountain air, unable to take even one step before he began to crumple, caught up this time by Yennefer. “Lemme go.” 

“Go, yourself.” It was said brusquely, but not unkindly, “if you can.” She thumbed away a tear on his cheek before it could freeze. 

“What choice do I have?” Jaskier’s voice was a broken thing, reedy and thin, full of hurt and pain and hopelessness. The potion’s effects were fading, they had no more and Geralt didn’t know what to do, bracketed by a child’s wide, fearful eyes and Vesemir’s baleful stare. 

“The cells.” 

“Geralt!” Ciri was disbelieving. 

“We can--he can be shackled.” Geralt had nothing else. If not this, they go back to the outpost together. He could not lose him. Not before he had the chance to make amends for the wrongs he’d wreaked upon him. “Vesemir. I will take responsibility for him in all ways.” Jaskier was gone again, skin white, breath shallow. 

In truth, he’d barely made it here. 

He wouldn’t make the journey back. 

“The Viper’s care will not interfere with your duties to the keep, nor the girl’s training.” The old witcher retreated, most likely into the library, and Geralt sank to his knees beside Yennefer to cup Jaskier’s face. 

“Ciri, stable Roach, collect our packs. Wait for me in the main hall, there will be a fire.” All without looking away from him until he gathered him up and bade Yen follow. 

It made him sick to secure the heavy weights to Jaskier’s ankles and wrists but there was no other choice. Not until he somehow convinced Vesemir he was no threat. There was no telling when or if his brothers would arrive this year, but he hoped they would be easier to persuade. 

“He can’t stay here, Geralt.” Yen had his head in her lap, absently petting him like one would a kitten. “It’s too cold and damp.” 

“He’s strong.” Geralt fretted over the furs, the bedroll. He’d bring down a frame once he got the sconces lit to get him off the stone floor. “Once I get Ciri settled in a room, I’ll be back. Stay with him?” She nodded without looking up.

It was damn near cheerful in the small cell now; swept clean, well lit, furnished with things scavenged from the many rooms no longer in use. No doubt Vesemir would have something to say about it if and when he chose to check on his. Prisoner. 

There was a set of chairs, a small table with basin and pitcher, a plush sheepskin lined the floor beneath Jaskier’s bed, the linens of which were clean and soft, the quilt thick and well worn. He was stripped to his braies, streaked with sweat that pooled in the dip of his clavicle and the remaining dirt and blood Ciri didn’t have time to clean away. His hollow stomach spasmed when he breathed, the wound shiny, skin tight, ribs standing out far enough to cast each their own shadow. Yen closed her violet eyes against the sight for but a moment, before taking a damp flannel to him, gently working away his time on the road while Geralt examined the ghastly injury yet again. Now that he could rest, stop aggravating it, maybe it would finally heal. 

Or maybe they were too late and it would finally take him. 

He prepared the packing, soaking it in a strong tisane before squeezing out the excess moisture and prodding it loosely into both the front and back gashes. The bitten off whimpers and weak writhing against Geralt’s hands could not be soothed by either of them and by the end he was panting short and sharp, tears soaking into his already damp hair at his temples. He needed calm and quiet, stillness and care and Geralt vowed he would have it as he brushed away tears and murmured unheard reassurances in response to Jaskier’s confused and delirious pleading. Yennefer tucked him in and pressed a lingering kiss to his overwarm forehead, finally settling him with a whisper in his ear, a secret only for the pair of them. 

Jaskier _burned_. 

Trapped between asleep and aware and unable to move at all and not for lack of trying because he was made to move. Struggling through fire and heat and alone, alone, alone because everyone was gone, gone, gone and he’s been left with no choice but to go back to what he was and stain his hands in red, red, red because that was all he was good for. Because no one ever stayed. And he fell in love so often and no amount of potions and trials and suffering and death and _red_ had ever been able to steal that from him. 

Maybe he should have let them have it. His heart. Useless, stupid, foolish thing.

But he can’t move. There’s something he can’t grasp. Something is holding him down. Holding him down, wrists, arms, chest, legs, ankles. He’s bound. 

He’s caught. 

He doesn’t know where he is and there is only fire and flame and heat and hurt and _exhaustion_. And he’s so tired. No rest for the wicked not until you finish your mission, but the mission is never over. There are already so many lined up and their _eyes_ stare into his own and ask him over and over and over. 

Why--

\--is he screaming? 

His throat is raw. He needs to stop, he won’t be able to sing--

No, no, no. Not made for that. He hasn’t performed in a long time. No one he cared for wanted him to play. Wanted him there. Wanted him at all. There’s no sound. Ears stopped up with his screaming but there’s no sound, only silence, deafening silence, a void so loud it threatened to split his head in two.

He doesn’t like the quiet when his thoughts race and memories threaten to overwhelm him in a flood of twisting, turning agony. He never wanted this. Never wanted to be unmade and remade and unmade again whenever the mood might strike. He didn’t know if he had it in him to do it again. And again. And again.

And he _hurt_. And he _ached_. And he _wanted_. 

And they were all gone. The ones who _knew_ what it was to be alone and be alone together. 

And they were gone.

Yellow. Gold. Amber anger, molten, liquid. Familiar. Not. 

Pain. Burning, biting, breaking.

Battering him from all sides. 

Nothing.

Another day. 

And another. 

And another.

Cleanse the wound, irrigate it, pack it, cradle him as he cried out in agony and called for people whose names he’d never mentioned before. Lambert called Geralt soft and Eskel looked grim when they arrived, hiding their curiosity about a school they’d only heard about in stories behind stinging jokes. They gave them a wide berth, immediately taking to Ciri and adopting her as one of their own, even accepting Yen! And Geralt couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t adopt Jaskier into the fold, the absence sharp and painful behind his heart. 

“They’ll see. When you’re well and singing their ears off so often they want to injure you again.” He tipped a mug against dry lips, watching Jaskier try to track his face from where it was poised above him with bleary blue eyes. A dark blush was dusted over his cheeks, his nose, and his skin shone with sweat. “You’ll love the springs beneath the keep.” They were too warm for him as he was, fevered and already so hot. 

And he was still bound; Vesemir wouldn’t offer any relief. Jaskier tugged at them on occasion, forgetful, frowning, muttering to himself in a voice that slipped in and out. “What I said, Jaskier. I.” 

_I’m sorry_ seemed incredibly inappropriate and inadequate, lacking any of the weight behind it that Geralt wanted it to hold.

I’m sorry. 

For ignoring you and your needs when we traveled. 

I’m sorry.

For making you believe your talent meant less than nothing to me. 

I’m sorry.

For taking advantage of your company and acceptance. 

I’m sorry. 

For laying every problem of my own at your feet and refusing to take responsibility. 

I’m sorry. 

For telling you that what you are changed anything about how I feel about you. 

I’m sorry.

For using your secret and fear against you to ease my own guilt.

Geralt sighed, stroking one flushed cheek until he was asleep again, never having been particularly fond of speaking about things involving apologies, things like feelings. Preferring to show his remorse in other ways. Favors, tokens. Filling his waterskin for him. Putting in extra effort to hunt something different after weeks of rabbit and rations. Asking if he would like his extra fruit, claiming he’d had enough. He knew Jaskier saw through those actions by the way his expression softened, his head tilted, the tiny smirk, the raised eyebrow. The way easy quiet would fall over their camp and dissolve that tense silence. He’d taken advantage of the bard’s willingness to forgive. The heart he’d kept after however long he’d been trialed and taught and turned out.

“I’m sorry.”

Geralt had a suspicion buying replacement strings wouldn’t be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying (or hating!) what's happening, lemme know :3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, now this is just becoming indulgent. I'm sorry!!

When Jaskier woke up enough to remember it, it was to Vesemir standing tall over him and Geralt asleep, breathing softly, by his bedside in a chair. His neck would end up with a crick at this point. He didn’t miss the predatory glint in those amber eyes, well aware of the differences between them and how easy it would be, even under Geralt’s nose, for the elder witcher to dispatch him quietly. He lifted a hand in greeting, surprised by what he was sure wasn’t the first time, by the chains and his profound weakness. Flicking his eyes towards Geralt’s sleeping form, he shushed the bigger man, giddy with the type of fearlessness only brought about by being so wrung out he’d lost complete control of his own narrative. The dopey smile that spread over his face was involuntary and it was a good thing he’d lost use of his voice or he would’ve quipped ‘like father, like son’ at the expression of exasperation. 

_“Rather rude.”_ Jaskier thought cynically of the mountain of man looming with crossed arms over his. Sickbed? Memories were fuzzy and punctuated with hurt and confusion, voices and sounds, lights and sensations that had no rhyme or reason. 

There was still pain, he noticed, as he put his sluggish mind to work parsing out this unfortunate situation. Shackled, aching all over, still feeling terribly unwell. Not the way one wanted to meet your best frie-- _acquaintance’s_ father figure. The very thought of trying to get up was laughable, the bonds more than unnecessary as he felt like he’d gone through an extra round of mutations for his trouble. The longer he held onto consciousness the more the wound through his side screamed for attention, sapping him as he laid there at Vesemir’s mercy. 

_”Kill me, or lemme sleep.”_ He was hallucinating, had to be because no other explanation would account for the minute softening of his angry, suspicious face, unless he’d spoken aloud, though it wasn’t like the witcher needed his explicit permission. Geralt shifting in his uncomfortable chair drew his scattered attention but between one blink and the next, Vesemir was gone and Jaskier followed suit. 

“Hold your tongue or I’ll tear it out.” Yennefer’s tone was cold and sharp, he was fairly certain the air in the great hall was cooler than Jaskier’s cell despite the roaring fire.

“All I’m saying--” Lambert. 

“We heard what you said!” Ciri, shrill, cracking. Had she been crying?

“Have you considered that he was sent here to kill _us_? That it’s just an elaborate trick? That he’s in someone else’s pocket?” Now Lambert’s voice was rising. “There’s a reason Vesemir’s keeping your precious snake shackled in the basement.” 

“Because he’s afraid!” Geralt entered just in time to see Yen catch Ciri up by the waist, lifting her clear off the ground as she tried to run headlong into his younger brother. She struggled in the sorceress’ arms and Geralt’s stomach twisted itself in even more knots. This was not how it was meant to be and, irrationally, he felt a flash of bitter anger towards Jaskier. If he hadn’t--! “He’s old and, and, and wrong!!” Power, the barest sliver, began to creep into her voice. 

“Ciri.” 

“Geralt!” Yennefer let her go and she barreled into him, hugging him tightly. “They’re saying such terrible things.” He ran his hand over her crown and down her back. 

“I heard and I will speak with them.” His eyes flashed in the firelight as he stared his family down. He knelt, cupping the back of her head and touching his forehead to hers. “Will you read to him?”

“Can I take the bestiary?” He nodded, embraced her again and she darted off, giving Lambert a wide berth and a scowl to rival his own. 

“I’d hoped your brothers were paragons of intelligence. But alas. They are worse than you, Geralt.” 

“Jaskier isn’t a threat.” Lambert scoffed, Eskel stayed neutral, at the very least willing to hear him out. 

“You yourself said he was the cause of all your troubles. And what do you even know of him? For all you know, he could be twice your age! Finishing old business!”

“By nearly killing himself to _help_ Ciri get here safely?” 

“But you don’t know for sure.” 

“I do.” 

“Vesemir doesn’t agree. He says the entire school was two faced, more apt to stab you in the back. They worked for Nilfgaard!” The youngest of them was incensed, almost red in the face, and while Geralt knew it came from a place of protection, he wanted to convince him that he needed Jaskier as much as he needed them. “Whole lot were cold blooded murderers, able to be bought and wielded against more than monsters. And you’ve gone and led vermin straight to our door!”

“What did I say about that wayward mouth of yours?” Yen was furious, advancing forward, and Lambert, the pup, had no idea what he was up against, showing his teeth and posturing instead of running. “Jaskier is the least of your worries if you’re talking of danger invited upon your own home, you ignorant, flea-bitten mongrel. You mewling varlet!” 

“Yen, please.”

“Unmuzzled _twit_.”

“Miserable hag!”

“Beef-witted mutt!”

“Enough!” Vesemir’s rumbling shout shook the sconces. “You! Pups! If you’ve this much energy, use it to train.” When nobody moved he roared again, “now!!” Sending even Geralt scrambling for the door and leaving Yennefer alone in the hall, vibrating with rage.

The tension in the keep was thick as the snow blanketing it and Geralt split his time between Ciri, chores, and Jaskier, waiting for him to recognize him when he woke, yell at him, curse his name, even just say it. It was almost a week later when he heard anything resembling words.

“G’ralt.” An observation, stating something to ground himself in here and now and Geralt had to restrain himself, lest he overwhelm him after so long spent asleep. He licked dry lips, coughed, winced, and accepted the water voraciously, whining when it was pulled away and looking for all the world like Geralt had smashed his lute. 

“How do you feel?” He looked around, tugged at the chain. 

“Hur’s.” Geralt offered him a few sips of water and cupped his cheek, moved to his neck, lingering to check the fever. Lower. At least than yesterday. 

“What do you remember?” 

“Saw Vezemir…yes’erday?” Jaskier didn’t know for sure and was almost too worn to be bothered, but he thought he recalled the old witcher. 

“More like five yesterdays.” 

“Fi’days?” Goddess, his voice couldn’t keep up with his brain and that was saying something as it was moving quite slow. He felt hollow and empty, the void gnawing on his insides because there was nothing left in him to give. 

“You need to get on your feet.” Jaskier waved a clanking hand; pointing out that he’d be out of their keep as soon as he could was too many words right now. He didn’t even have the energy to feel guilty when Geralt’s face fell. “No, Jaskier.” His tone was sorrowful where before he’d have been met with irritation. “You need to get your blood moving. You’ve been laid low a long time.” 

“How long?”

“A fortnight at least.” Jaskier closed his eyes against that new piece of information, just too tired, too, too tired. He pried them open with difficulty when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, allowing Geralt to do as he wished, maneuver him as he saw fit, and lift him to his feet. Noticing he was dressed only in breeches, he shivered when the cold stone met his toes and grunted at the ache permeating every bit of him. Jaskier could barely move, overcome with dizziness, overwhelmed by everything, but he forced himself to try when Geralt stepped forward, expecting that he would be left behind to fall on his arse should he be unable to keep up. 

And was surprised when he did no such thing. 

At the slightest apprehension and resistance he let Jaskier rest, taking more care with him in these few moments than he had in their whole twenty years prior. It wasn’t fair and he was angry with him for making it so hard to stay angry with him. It stopped up his throat with wanting to cry and everything was so _hard_ right now all he wanted to do was sleep. As they neared the end of their route he leaned more and more into Geralt and he took it, adjusting his hold and making encouraging sounds. 

“Still mad’atchu.” Not much more than a hitched whisper, his whole body was on fire and he was limping heavily on his injured side after just one turn about the cell. 

“I know.” Geralt sat him on the edge of the mattress before he let go and immediately had to catch him again as Jaskier fell forward, too sore, too incredibly weak to even hold himself up after however long he’d spent running himself into the ground to try and forget. 

“Mean.” Not his most eloquent or imaginative of insults, surely not intimidating when he was being laid gently down, completely at the mercy of what could possibly be a fortress full of Wolves out for his Viper blood. 

And _oh,_ this pain was so familiar and he couldn’t stop the whimpering when Geralt, with such care, removed the bloody packing with practiced precision. He didn’t realize he was still keening until a large palm settled on his cheek, and he paused, swallowing hard, tears welling in his eyes. 

“Shh, I know, I know.” Stunned into silence, Jaskier was convinced this was nothing more than an elaborate fever dream and just listened as Geralt murmured such soft words. “It’s healed enough. We don’t need to do that again. Should close up all the way soon.” This time the mug was warm, heated with igni to a stupidly perfect temperature. It tasted strongly of herbs, some he could probably recognize if he cared enough to try. Lifted, wrapped, cuffed, and tucked back in, Jaskier let the medicine take him back down. 

Days passed, Jaskier slept less and lost less time as he healed, eating anything and everything Geralt brought him, so hungry he didn’t think he could ignore it out of spite even if he wanted to. Geralt, for his part, kept a respectful distance unless they went for a walk and still didn’t rush him, shove him, demand that he move faster, and Jaskier pushed the boundaries of how long he was willing to wait, finding himself standing for full moments, counting the thudding beats of a heart built slower than his own. Inherently, physically, they were similar. Both tall and broad, though Jaskier was built slighter, lighter, due to his school, the line of work he was supposed to pursue. Seems he was a disappointment to all. Whoever his birth parents were who promised him away, his trainers, the teachings he was supposed to follow, Geralt. His brothers, his family. Made to look more _human_ than all of them while being anything but. 

Other.

Even among his own _”kind.”_

“Do you need to rest?” He looked up, their eyes colliding more than meeting, and Geralt shifted enough to stare just over his shoulder, uncomfortable it would seem. 

“No.” Too quickly and Geralt’s blank expression grew soft. Silent for a long breath, it was as though he was taking a plunge into an icy pool when he next spoke. 

“Would you like to see the main hall?” Another beat.

“Am I allowed?” The note of bitterness in his tone did not go unnoticed if the clenching of his jaw was anything to go by. 

“They can answer to me if they have a problem.” Jaskier searched his face for a lie. There was no question that Geralt felt badly about his previous actions and that he wanted to make amends. He was going about it slowly. Carefully. Allowing Jaskier to set the pace and the bard was more than grateful, happy even, to take that time to figure out what _he_ wanted. 

What was the saying, twenty years bitten, next twenty shy?

“Then. I think I would like to try a longer distance.” The hopeful smile on Geralt’s lips almost made the hole in him worth it. 

Until the stairs. He hadn’t anticipated the strain or the strength they required and he was forced to stop after only a handful. But Geralt lifted him with ease and placed him back on his two feet at the top. 

“Jaskier!” The princess leapt off the couch where she was reading with Yennefer, who, dare he say, looked relieved to see him. 

“Gently.” Geralt warned. 

“Ciri.” He pulled away from his witcher walking stick and knelt, he would deny it was more a collapse ‘till the day he died, to hug her tightly before he was helped back up and tugged by insisting fingers to join Yen. Ciri chattered endless; about her lessons with each witcher in the keep, how fast she was improving and oh! 

“Yen has been teaching me magic!” 

Conversation switched easily between topics and Jaskier followed along easily enough, pleased that Yen was here, an ally for all she made fun of him. He didn’t remember when they arrived at the keep, but he was told Yennefer had already gone after Lambert. 

“Is he daft?” Jaskier was incredulous, laughing lightly at their exchange of insults, at how normal this always was. “Goddess, he’s lucky and he doesn’t even know it.” He ended up laying back in Yen’s lap, the middle of him aching from working so hard keeping him upright, and let her tangle long fingers into his hair to tease out the knots while the wash of murmuring slipped over him, interjecting with relevant gossip occasionally. 

Jaskier only meant to close his eyes for a moment, lashes growing heavier with each exchange, but ended up falling asleep to the lull of their comforting voices. And he only realized when the familiar hand brushing his forehead woke him briefly before he was bundled into Geralt’s arms and carried away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, someone's finally coming around!

“You’re sure?” 

“As long as you’re with me.” And Jaskier didn’t know how to feel about choosing between being chained to a wall or being forced to traverse the keep with Geralt as his chaperone. It must have shown in his face because Geralt’s expression was guarded and tight. Ashamed. It was tempting, insulting. They still hadn’t talked more than exchanging a few words here and there. Mostly related to Jaskier’s wellbeing. He flinched, hard, when Geralt’s palm cupped his forehead. “Just checking.” 

“You could ask, you know. Now.” 

“Force of habit.” Jaskier let him squirm and wonder where he went wrong for a long moment. Goddess knows he’s had to solve more puzzles in the decades they traveled together than in all his extended life before then. 

“What did you want to show me?” He sighed, quite put upon of course, raising an eyebrow when Geralt’s face visibly brightened and he hauled him to his feet. 

“You _ass._ ” For a moment, forgetting he was supposed to be cross with him, Jaskier swatted his arm. “You mean, all this _time?_ ” He swatted him again for good measure.

“We aren’t supposed to bring anyone to the keep.” Geralt quirked his lips in a half smile. “Least of all peculiar bards.” 

“It’s not fair.” Lit by a scattering of diffuse, milky sunbeams stretching from somewhere high above and long burning torches, a series of pools in varying sizes stretched out in front of them. Jaskier could taste the minerals in the air on his tongue, could smell them when he breathed in the steam. “Your own hot spring.” Most had been left natural, depths ranging from a few colorful inches to several feet. The deepest hewn with tools and time to make comfortable ledges. The whole cavern sang with the music of water trickling over rocks, dripping and dancing along the ridges. “It’s beautiful.” He couldn’t help the awe in his voice.

“Yeah.” Jaskier glanced over at his tone, soft and sweet. 

“I can bathe myself, Geralt.” 

“I know.” There was a beat of silence before he spoke again so quietly Jaskier wouldn’t have caught it if he had human ears. “You used to. For me, I mean.” And quieter still, “I know you’re still hurting.” This is why Jaskier ran. And hid. And fought. Because he didn’t know what was good for him and kept falling back into the arms of the one who hurt him most. One he let hurt him and whose fault was that but his own? “Jaskier?” 

“Hm?” Geralt’s hand was outstretched, but he didn’t touch him. 

He was _trying_.

And Jaskier was ever a fool.

He sat him on a wooden bench and eased Jaskier’s arms out of the loose chemise, letting him untie his own breeches, looking away politely until he heard him slip under the water, smirking at the sigh of relief the heat pulled out of Jaskier. 

“Geralt.” Blissed out, the water soothing each and every knot out of muscles he didn’t even know he had, Jaskier let the words tumble from his mouth without thinking. “We’re coming back next year.” He ducked his head in shame. “I.” 

“Hm.” Impossible to determine, but Geralt settled behind him, dipping bare legs with pants rolled up to the knee into the pool on either side and suddenly there were those gentle hands again. Running over his shoulders with a soft cloth saturated with clean smelling soap, the natural current drawing the swirling bubbles away in a lazy, pearlescent ribbon. By the time he finished and went to move on to his arms, Jaskier noticed he’d let his head fall to the side, resting against Geralt’s thigh and drifting along with each glistening sphere. 

Geralt always had been better with actions and while Jaskier would demand an apology when the time seemed right, the care the wolf was taking with him would tide him over until they were both ready. 

“You have so few scars.” Jaskier surfaced from his doze, shrugging pleasantly loose shoulders, when he traced one with a calloused fingertip. 

“We uh.” No more we. He swallowed. “ _I_ specialized in a different kind of work.” Jaskier leaned back, resting his head against Geralt again. “I’ve always been good with words. Spinning tales. Cyphers and codes. A gift not given with potions and training.” He looked up into curious golden eyes. “My talents gave my instructors incessant headaches, I’m sure.” 

“Hm.”

“We were made to fit in. To be unremarkable.”

“You’re hardly that.” Jaskier turned his face into his leg, smiling into the black linen, while Geralt worked soap into his hair with strong fingers. 

“Someone needs to hunt.” Eskel crossed his arms. “I went out last time.” Geralt made to volunteer but was interrupted by Lambert enthusiastically enlisting. 

“Jaskier can come with me.” Geralt raised an eyebrow at Lambert’s declaration. “Some fresh air’ll be good for ‘im.” When he looked at Jaskier in silent question, the bard just shrugged. He’d been moving easier, less pained, more antsy and like his usual self. It would be good for him to begin rebuilding what he’d lost, but it was up to him and when he seemed interested in the prospect Geralt fixed his brother with a stern look. 

“You won’t go too far.” 

“‘Course not, saw tracks on our favorite ridge the other day.” Geralt bundled Jaskier up in his own cloak, holding onto his gloved hands for a moment before pressing a sturdy bow into them and searching his face. It was good that he felt well enough to get outside, he probably wanted to prove he could help provide, and surely Lambert wouldn’t do anything stupid after getting to know him better. 

Still.

“You can come back to the keep on your own if it’s too much.” 

“Stop makin’ eyes. We’re wasting daylight.” Ignoring Lambert, Jaskier squeezed his fingers.

“Don’t fret, darling witcher.” The old endearment inspired a rush of relief so strong he was nearly dizzied with it. He almost hadn’t dared hope that he could mend what he’d so callously broken, but if Jaskier was willing to give him this back maybe there was a chance after all. 

Jaskier was pretty sure he knew what was up. He was going to get some sort of warning from the School of the Wolf’s youngest resident and he assumed it would likely include fists, seeing as how he hadn’t brought along a sword. But daggers could be equally as effective; Jaskier knew that too well. 

And he had yet to get his back. Maybe Geralt didn’t pick them up? 

He had to admit though, getting outdoors to stretch his legs was nice, even if he did feel less than one hundred percent. The air was crisp and clean, the sun bright but not overly so, and following Lambert’s tromping footsteps made the way easier. Jaskier didn’t see much sign of game and was occupied examining what could be antler rubbing marks left by one ungulate or another, when a powerful haymaker caught him in the jaw from behind causing blood to bloom in the snow like roses. He caught the next, dropping low to sweep Lambert off his feet and put some distance between them by tumbling backwards into a crouch. 

He was already breathing hard.

“I won’t let you do it.” Lambert advanced, battle lust rushing in to flood his pupils, blowing them wide and leaving them rung by a paper thin halo of gold. 

“Do what?” He pressed a hand, cold from snow, to his face to dull the ache, narrowed strawflower blue darting, calculating, planning. 

“Don’t play dumb with me, _snake!_ ” The next attack was brutal, swift, and while Lambert might’ve had the advantage of bulk, Jaskier had no qualms about playing dirty, driving a bony knee up into his gut at the same time he rotated away from the next jab, following the momentum of the swing as it glanced off his cheekbone, and reeling, just catching his balance. Lambert staggered, clutching his stomach, the smell of rage wafting off him sharp and raw. “Fuckin’--!” His barreling weight dropped Jaskier to his back, the rain of blows blocked barely in time by the hard bone of his forearms until one caught him in his injured side, forcing breath and blood from his throat and blacking out his vision. Reflexively, Jasker brought his legs up and kicked out strong enough to send Lambert rolling in the powder. Panting, writhing, stamping one foot hard to try and distract himself from the agony, Jaskier dragged himself along with an elbow, the other one pressed and trembling against ribs and flesh still resonating with the hit. 

The wolf was trying to kill him. This was no warning, this was a murder attempt. 

“W’wait--” Blinking fast, trying to clear his sight as Lambert stalked him. He almost couldn’t think, the sharp pain stealing any and all reason.

“Not a chance.” He sneered, advanced. “I’m doing the world a favor.” Just like his school’s namesake he circled, cautious, but no less angry, and Jaskier’s clawed hand struck out over and over, desperate to create distance--just a little farther--because Lambert’s fury didn’t account for Jaskier’s wit and timing, and when he kicked again, this time dead center of his breastbone, he was forced backwards, tripping over a dead log, and the crack of his head smacking against the snowpack long echoed along the ridge in the silence. 

Jaskier collapsed, hugging his middle and giving himself just a moment to sulk and whine. Thank the goddess for thick headed, idiot wolves. Were they taught that? To be idiots? 

Lambert had yet to move and Jaskier pushed himself up onto his knees, taking a moment to get his breathing under control before stumbling to his feet. If he was left here, there was a possibility he’d freeze to death before he regained consciousness on his own. Jaskier didn’t want to even imagine what that would do to his brothers, notably, one in particular. 

“You better not go after me again.” Muttering that and other expletives, Jaskier poked around the bump on the back of his head, fingers coming away bloody. But he was breathing easy, during his little nap. He’d probably heal up no dumber than he was before. “Oi.” He rubbed a ball of snow into Lambert’s face, laughing coldly when he sputtered, groaned, swore. “I _will_ push you off this mountain if you try that a second time. Get up.” Jaskier butted against him, shoving a shoulder under his arm and levering him to his feet. The other witcher was disoriented, his mass threatening to drag them back to the ground as he trudged along beside him. The way back was thrice as long with the pair of them limping forward as dusk fell, Jaskier less and less able to keep them upright as he tired in the deep snow and Lambert taking more and more of his own weight until it wasn’t clear who held who upright.

“I was, I was gonna kill you.” 

“I know.” 

“Why?” Jaskier let the quiet swell, winded and breathless, the sounds of owls and small things under the snow rustling while he debated sharing his reasoning. 

“Geralt would not survive your loss unchanged.” The wolf hummed, pensive, and neither spoke again until they stepped into the warmth and light of the keep. 

Geralt looked up, ever the predator, immediately flying to their sides, Eskel on his heels as they sank to their knees. Piecing everything together, Geralt cupped Jaskier’s wind-chapped face, thumbing over the frozen blood and blossoming bruises on his skin and glaring at Lambert who had the sense to drop his gaze to the stone. 

“I’m tired.” Jaskier let his forehead collide with his shoulder, not even needing to play it up to distract him from Eskel dragging Lambert off to safety, as he was completely sure he couldn’t stand on his own. Geralt offered his arm, hoisting him up only to catch him as his eyes rolled skyward.

He startled awake in Geralt’s room, confused as he’d been relegated to the cell until now. It must have shown on his face, because Geralt answered him anyway. 

“Never again. I will never chain you again.” It was a comforting thought, a difficult decision, and Jaskier knew what it was to be torn between loyalties. He blinked and his coat was gone, again, and the heavy boots and sopping wet socks had been removed. The third time it was his gloves and Jaskier’s icy fingers were sandwiched between Geralt’s warm palms. “You’re cold.” 

“Hm.” As if to punctuate the affirmation, Jaskier shivered hard, top to toe. As he warmed, he ached, his body thawing enough to hurt. Again, and his chin collided with his collarbone only to have Geralt lift it with a fingertip, wry grin making Jaskier smile just slightly.

“He got you good.” A warm, damp flannel swept gently over his face, removing the tackiness.

“Lucky shot.” Slurred, tongue heavy in a mouth flooded with iron. “Din’t wanna embarres’im.” He opened his eyes to find he was laying down with Geralt prodding his injury, the spreading contusion his brother left too close above it. “S’fine…”

“I should kill him.” 

“Not af’er all the work I did, you won’.” Geralt left it alone for now and when Jaskier next forced his heavy lashes apart he was tucked into blankets up to his neck. 

“Still mad.” And he was. But he was also weak and wanting. 

“I know.” 

“Still cold.” Geralt didn’t speak again, just kicked off his own boots and slid in next to him. Just before Jaskier dropped off for good, tentative arms wrapped him up in warmth and took the chill away. 

It was late afternoon before Jaskier woke again, alone in Geralt’s bed, judging by the angle of the sun and he couldn’t contain the pained groan as every hurt flared tenfold. He missed not being sore, or exhausted, or dizzy. He wasn’t used to this and it left him feeling vulnerable. His side was _throbbing_ in time with his heartbeat, every breath expanding his ribs felt like it twisted a knife. Fucking Lambert. He was lucky his erratic punch didn’t break a bone. Jaskier made the mistake of putting his feet on the floor, regretting it immediately when sitting up proved a fool’s errand. 

“Damn it.” He could only get one leg back on the mattress, the one on his wounded side was staying where it was for now. Briefly, he thought about calling for Geralt before deciding he’d rather die than let the other wolves know he was in this predicament. It wasn’t all bad. It was warm, the furs were comfortable and he was tired enough to let his eyes close against the light filling up the room. 

“What happened?” Jaskier let his head loll in Geralt’s direction, trying to figure out how much time passed between earlier and now and ultimately deciding he was exhausted enough not to care.

“Got stuck.” Rather than continue asking questions, Geralt set the tray of food and wine aside before lifting Jaskier’s leg back in the bed.

“Hungry?” 

Geralt climbed the steps slowly, wanting to make sure Jaskier got something in his stomach before the day ended since every time he checked up on him he was still asleep. He never should have let Jaskier go out alone but he’d thought--

And look where it almost got them. 

Goddess, would he ever think?

What would he have done had only one of them returned? 

At least the youngest seemed contrite but that could be the kitchen duty he was on for the next two weeks and the harsh scolding he’d received from Ciri. Thankfully, his cooking was edible and he had the sense not to argue with the child lest he incur even _more _of Yennefer’s wrath. It was a close thing to calm her down enough to convince her that Jaskier would be upset if he found Lambert torn limb from limb.__

__He shouldered the door open, smiling fondly at the pale leg dangling over the edge of the bed and Jaskier’s snoring, of which he would vehemently deny. It happened most after long performances, when they pushed hard over rough terrain in horrible weather, when he lost rest to ugly dreams for days in a row until his body gave out and forced sleep upon him. Jaskier never shared any of his nightmares and Geralt never asked, because what experiences could a foppish court bard have that forced those ragged cries out of him? A jilted lover? Escaping narrowly from a cuckolded husband? Difficulty with a rhyming couplet? If he’d inquired, shown any interest at all in him, would Jaskier have told him his secret? Knowing he thought so, so little of him?_ _

__What was it like to trust someone with everything except the most vulnerable part of you? Realizing if they ever discovered your most shameful secrets, you wouldn’t mean enough to them to keep? He shook himself out of these useless thoughts; the bard needed to eat._ _

__“What happened?” Jaskier’s head fell to the side, listless, and it made something ache inside Geralt to see him so wan and wasted. He was still thin, more than rangy now. In the hot springs he could count every vertebra marking the shallow dip of his spine and dense though his bones were, he felt fragile, like if Geralt wasn’t careful he’d break under his hands, shatter under the weight of his words. It became clear he didn’t have the strength to haul his leg back into the bed and when Geralt sorted him and helped him sit against the headboard, he nearly swooned. He was running on empty and pushed to his limit again far too soon; Jaskier needed rest, proved it halfway through methodically lifting the spoon to his mouth when he yawned hugely._ _

__“Sorry, darling.” Jaskier breathed, forcing heavy lashes apart and blinking a little dazedly. The warmth of the room, the food, the wine, all conspired against his wakefulness and truthfully, he’d been listing to the left for more than a few moments. “Finish for me? Don’t want to waste it.”_ _

__“I think Lambert actually tried.”_ _

__“Should I be wary of poison?” Wry, he smiled, shifting gingerly down into the pillows with a weary sigh._ _

__“I checked.” Jaskier’s bark of unexpected mirth ended in a pained moan and he waved Geralt away with a hand._ _

__“Oh, please. Don’t make me laugh, love.” The endearments were sprinkled like warm rain amidst his speech, each a precious, golden drop that resonated in that deep pool where his affections were sunk, spreading ripples that grew wider and wider with every quenching bead of dew._ _

__He’d gotten everything so wrong._ _

__“I’m resistant to mos’ toxins anyway.” Murmured, eyes slipping shut for good. “Let’im try. L’il shit.”_ _

__So, so wrong._ _

__

__Next evening found all of them sans Vesemir in the great hall, lit well, the stone around them warmed by the blaze in the generous hearth. Eskel tossed another log on and a shower of sparks erupted, making Ciri’s eyes go wide before they were swept up in the draft. Yen was reading from a tome off the top of a stack she’d procured, interrupting now and then to ask Geralt a question or two about the accuracy of certain mighty proclamations._ _

__Jaskier had overtaxed himself and still felt chilled, grateful for the quilt Geralt draped over his shoulders before taking a sprawling seat next to him, loose and relaxed._ _

__“And here this fool is!” Lambert punched him in the arm, roaring with laughter as he recounted their disastrous _hunt_ , and Jaskier shook his head fondly, the trial by fire method oddly comforting in the familiar way it built bonds among those built like them. “Carrying me home after I blacked both his eyes!” If he’d only known the youngest was so easily won over he would have instigated Lambert himself. _ _

__“I should’ve brought back your pelt, brat.” The other witchers in the room howled, slapping their knees in an attempt to contain themselves between the two of them and their barbs. “Picture it, Geralt!” He waved an arm in a wide, dramatic arc. “A wee Lambert pelt, ass up in front of the fire.” Jaskier took a swig of ale. “Downright picturesque if I do say so myself.”_ _

__“Certainly has enough hair to act as a rug.” This time, Geralt smacked his brother hard across the shoulder blades such that he choked, causing him to go red in the face, spluttering with indignation and amusement._ _

__A throat pointedly clearing caught their attention and brought all merriment to an abrupt stop._ _

__The room fell silent. Went cold as the old witcher stalked into their circle and Jaskier felt his eyes involuntarily grow wide._ _

__“Stand, pup.” Jaskier wasn’t sure what Vesemir wanted with him, whether to kill him, beat him, hurt him, maim him, but he wouldn’t face it sitting down and pushed himself to his still shaky feet, drawing up tall and proud, clueless as to his place in Kaer Morhen but beginning to believe Geralt truly wanted him by his side. Lightheaded, he swayed with his first step, hearing Geralt almost leap to his own feet and knowing he’d stilled at the sharp look in Vesemir’s cold amber glance. When they stood nearly eye to eye Jaskier took a deep and centering breath, enduring the elder witcher’s long stare. He was flagging, still aching and exhausted, but didn’t allow it to show on his face, knowing they could all smell it anyway. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing him weak again._ _

__He felt wholly visible anyway, cut open to the quick by molten stone and laid open for the one who hated him most to see. Maybe he could get in a quick strike or two before the inevitable happened, bracing himself when the eldest among them reached toward him._ _

__A huge palm cupped the back of his head, drew him in for a rough (and slightly painful) embrace. He could hear the slow, unnatural heartbeat beneath his ear, scent the leather and old pages, the ingredients he’d measured out for potions earlier. The smell of horse and hay._ _

__“You’re not so different from my boys.” It was quiet, meant for only them even though every wolf could hear. “You may not have been made the same way, but the same suffering is in you.” He took Jaskier’s weight when his trembling legs finally gave out in relief, in disbelief, holding him closer, still caught against his chest. “We all need pack. Family. And yours was stolen so long ago. I doubt you remember the old grudges. If you were told of them at all.” They were old and faded in his memory, the folly of them never recorded in any history books or passed down in more than rumor._ _

__“I’m the last.”_ _

__“You are.”_ _

__“I don’t want to fight.” When the tears came, unexpected, swift, he couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed, even as they soaked through the other man’s tunic in which he hid his face._ _

__“Then we won’t, snakeling.” With some unseen motion he called Geralt to his side and Jaskier was held close between them, intoxicated, overwhelmed by the feeling of safety he hadn’t known since they’d parted on the mountain. “Our pack will not fight about such ancient rivalries.”_ _


	8. Chapter 8

“Jaskier, Jaskier wait.” And he made him by grabbing his shoulder. “It was a hard hit and Eskel said--”

“I’m fine, Geralt.” Rough, growling, he tugged his arm out of his grip, feet planted wide, stance balanced and strong and uncaring that he movement hurt. He was right about one thing, Eskel landed a solid strike before hauling him back to his feet to thank him for the challenge, the sheen of sweat implying that Jaskier had given as good as he got. It had been sincere, Eskel’s compliment, and here was Geralt, smothering him when he _needed_ \--what exactly he didn’t know. But he needed it. He’d let himself run and hide and pretend and wallow and pine and mourn and cry for far, far too long and now. Now he’d been given himself back and he refused to lose it again. Refused to get so attached that one man could make him give it all up. Could make him disappear. To make the only one who remembered his _brothers_ , could tell _their_ stories, disappear. Everything was fused together, grains of sand glassed as one, made inseparable by a single, excruciating lighting strike on a beach somewhere so distant he couldn’t possibly reach it alone. An agonizing, full body beat pounded in tandem with his hammering heart, his aimless, ravenous longing chewing him up from the inside out. Normally, he had such a firm understanding of what he was feeling, able to throw himself into the role of bard so easily and wear his myriad emotions on his sleeve. 

Now. 

“Jaskier--”

“I’m.” He deliberately took a deep breath, mollified by the contrite expression in Geralt’s sorrowful golden eyes, met them with his own. “I’m alright.” He left him there, staring at his back and bereft in the hall, and headed to his own room. 

Geralt was at a loss. 

Jaskier, having been given the choice of his own room by Vesemir once he felt well enough, decided at once to put this space again between them and Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. 

He’d thought. 

They hadn’t yet spoken of the mountain but he’d _thought_.

And was clearly mistaken given the speed at which Jaskier was striding swiftly forward. Forward without _him_. 

Making this right between them was daunting and Geralt wasn’t completely sure he was up for the challenge. 

Ciri was doing well against Eskel in the courtyard despite only having trained with her wooden sword for a few weeks now. At first, Jaskier was worried they would go too hard, the hit Eskel had landed just the other day still smarted. He could remember sparring with his brothers and they were all of a similar size, but this. She was a lion cub going up against a direwolf and currently her bark was much worse than her bite. He needn’t worry though, not with Vesemir’s hawk-like gaze fixed on the pair of them, Yennefer egging Ciri on from the sidelines and encouraging her to fight dirty. A fur cloak fell across his shoulders and Geralt settled beside him on the wall, the scant inch between them warmer for the chill around them. Jaskier lifted a brow and watched a blush crawl across his cheeks. 

“It’s cold.” Mumbling, Geralt’s golden eyes flicked towards him and away, fixed studiously on the dueling duo. 

“Thank you.” Ciri landed a particularly good hit and the praise Vesemir offered up drifted to them on the wind. So witcher’s were capable of the odd kind word. 

“How are you?” Geralt cleared his throat. “Feeling. How’re you feeling?” 

“Well, thank you.” 

They were ignoring it now. And that was worse. 

Exchanging pleasantries. 

The divide between them had always been there. Jaskier had always ignored it. And now he couldn’t bring himself to even shout over that yawning precipice. It figured, just when Geralt was ready to use his words, Jaskier’s throat was stopped up with his. 

Because he just so wanted to be loved. Had spent his whole life after the fall trying to scrape together family with his songs until he realized, far, far too late, that you could be popular and unloved at the same time. He’d given what he could of himself away in the attempt, all of what he had left of himself, and he’d tried to stop loving Geralt and when that failed, he’d tried to be useful. And when that failed. 

The realization that he’d misjudged their relationship so badly when all he’d been created to do was read people and deceive them, was like falling forever with no hope of hitting the ground. A cold, merciless descent with no one left to care or to catch him as he fell. 

To love Geralt was to shout into that void and hear not even your own echo in reply. 

Jaskier’s eyes had gone distant, hazy and faded, his now vacant stare fixed on an empty courtyard and if Geralt was forced to talk about it he would define the knot around his heart as worry. He was worried about Jaskier. He wanted to make this right. See the spark rekindled in his gaze strong enough to linger as it had when he first met him. 

But it was Geralt who’d snuffed it out; did he even have the right to try and coax it to life again? To ask Jaskier to give him another chance when he’d afforded him chance enough to last a dozen lifetimes? 

He opened his mouth to speak and turned, blinking at the space that had held Jaskier only moments before, cloak folded primly over the wall. 

“Have you seen Jaskier?” Yennefer shooed him away earlier, claiming that his hovering and moping was distracting her young charge and he would probably agree with her if he hadn’t felt so unmoored. Vesemir booted him out of his study where he was making notes on the sparse few pages contained in their library about Viper mutations because he was “thinking too loud.” He’d gone on to imply the outer wall needed some shoring up and that if he had a great need to expend energy, he could very well do something useful with it. In the main hall Eskel was losing spectacularly at a game of gwent against Lambert for some rare and precious potion ingredients hence his mumbled and clipped:

“I’m not his keeper.” Lambert at least took a long look at Geralt’s face and pitied him.

“Nicked a bottle of white gull and snuck outside of the walls.” He held up a hand to stop the outpouring of outrage before it could start. “Hasn’t gone far. You’ll see his tracks.” Geralt barely caught the furs his brothers threw at him in tandem. 

Lambert was right. There his tracks were, plain and clear and leading him directly to his wayward bard. It was sad, poetic. To find him sitting against a tree with a bottle to his lips. Geralt plunked himself down beside him, removed the alcohol from his hand and took a swig himself before handing it back and arranging the pelts over both their laps.

“You’re a terrible spy.”

“Maybe I wanted to be found.” The weight of his response joined with the liquor in his gut and made it churn. 

Maybe he had. 

“You did.” And didn’t he? Throwing himself in harm’s way so recklessly. Clearing the way for them by divulging his plans and leaving breadcrumbs. All while silently begging Nilfgaard to capture him. To make it stop. 

“S’okay.” With a sloppy gesture he patted Geralt’s knee, took another swallow. “Was always living on borrowed time, anyway.” Offering, he raised a brow and Geralt declined. One of them should be clear headed.

“It’s.” It’s somehow worse, the damage that’s been dealt and the wolf was beginning to understand the depth of his part in it. At the very least he’d had his brothers. A place to go back to and others who shared the same experiences. And he knew, didn’t he! The loneliness of the road, the path. 

And Jaskier, rebuffed every time. 

“Been a bard for a long time, Geralt.” He shook the bottle, peered into it and sighed when he found it empty, letting it sit in his enervated hands. There should be a lute there, cradled gently in his delicate fingers like the empty glass was cradled there instead. A miserable replacement. “Haven’t been a witcher for longer.” He chuffed, letting his head fall back against the bark. “Seemed safer. My brothers. All scattered. Dead. Hiding. We couldn’t find each other if we tried.” Now he laughed lightly, an unkind sound that didn’t belong there between them. “Couldn’t go home if I wanted to. Not beyond Nilfgaard. Not to a ruined keep.” Geralt let him speak, cupped his flushed face and thumbed away the stray tears. “But I know what Nilfgaard is doing is wrong. And the lessons don’t really go away.” His wry and watery smile did nothing to reassure. “Beaten too far into even my thick skull to forget.” 

“I’m sorry, Jaskier.” The furs slipped away as the man shifted towards him, bottle forgotten when his clumsy hands leapt to reassure and succeeded only in twisting the guilt in his stomach into further knots.

“No, hey, you. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Goddess, hadn’t he? “You had Ciri to think about, precious thing, no use worrying over a fool like me. Not when she was out there all on her own--” Drunk and babbling.

“Jaskier--”

“I _lied_ , I lied to you, Geralt--before that!” When he laughed it held a frantic edge. “They couldn’t beat _me_ out of me it seems,” and didn’t that make the wolf’s blood boil because Vesemir was strict but had _never_ punished their core personalities, “but I know.” He hung his head, scrubbing his eyes with the backs of his fingers. “I know how I, I, I am. I know. It’s. I’m not. Ha.” 

“Hush.” Gingerly, he lifted his face, meeting a wavering smile and red-rimmed eyes, brilliant blue made more so by the sheen of moisture. “Whatever you were going to say. It isn’t true. Not to me. Never to me.” In tandem his thumbs stroked both cheeks, Jaskier’s hands curled around his wrists. “I’m sorry that it took me so long to realize it and Jaskier--” surprising himself, he pressed his lips to his forehead, tilted his own to meet it. “That is _my_ fault.” 

“Geralt?” Whispered such that the noise was swallowed between them.

“And I’m so sorry I made it your burden to bear.” 

This time when he carried Jaskier up the stairs it was to place him in his own bed in his own room in the keep he now shared with his family and already boasted touches from the bard. Open books, nibbled quills, empty inkwells, paper with what he recognized as scattered and scratched out lyrics with accompanying music notes strewn like stars littered a small desk. Dislodging grasping fingers, Geralt removed his cloak, boots and doublet, pulling the blanket up to his chin and turning to leave only to be stopped by the same fingers he’d untangled near minutes before.

“No kiss good-night?” It was teasing, easy, reminiscent of the man he left behind on that mountain forever and a day ago who always offered and only ever pushed Geralt gently out of his comfort zone. Careful. Always careful. With him. A favor he’d yet to repay. He could hear the choice in his words and, now that he was listening, he could hear the invitation as well. 

This was a crossroads. Jaskier testing to see which path they would continue to take together. Knowing that he would accept whichever fork Geralt chose somehow made the choosing that much simpler. He rolled his eyes, fond and with the slightest quirk of his lips, before dipping down and pressing a kiss into soft brown hair. 

His debt would take time to pay down but there was no better time to start. 

It was hard to say goodbye. Nearly as difficult as it had been to say hello and Jaskier didn’t know if they could ever understand what their acceptance of him meant, not truly. He would miss them dearly, Ciri especially, but Geralt promised they would return for the hot springs at the very least. Vesemir gifted him a set of armor, lighter than his wolves would wear, Eskel, an old and sturdy satchel stocked with all manner of things, and Lambert pressed Jaskier’s knives, repaired, polished, gleaming, _sharp_ , into his hands.

For once in his long, long life, Jaskier was speechless, teary-eyed and so thankful that he didn’t hear Geralt come up behind him until he cleared his throat.

“Because it was lost.” Puzzled, Jaskier accepted the small package, unwrapping it slowly under Geralt’s nervous gaze.

“What was lost?” In his palms, shining bright amongst black leather and linen, was a medallion adorned with the School of Wolves’ symbol. Trembling, Jaskier traced it with a fingertip as though it would disappear, staring wide eyed, before flicking up to meet Geralt. 

“If. If you’ll have us.” The chain was in Geralt’s hands and Jaskier nodded mutely, yet more tears escaped, shaken loose from damp lashes, when the heavy silver settled in place. Settled _home_. Nothing mattered but the two of them in this moment and Jaskier let his forehead tip into Geralt’s chest, the weight of a whole world lifted so suddenly from his shoulders it all but stole his voice away.

“ _Always_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah. Here it is! I hope I've managed to deliver ^^''''


End file.
